He veered from the tent flap and the two wary giant guards, and instead made his way to the side. He pressed his ear against the skin, hoping he might catch the conversation within, but to no avail. He had to go in, and so he did, easing himself under the tent flap. Good luck was with him, and he slipped in near some casks and crates at the side of the wide tent. He quickly eased behind them, all the while fearing that a drow noble might detect his presence, invisible or not.
He quieted his breathing and listened.
And learned.
Tiago’s entourage left the encampment soon after, and, his invisibility long worn away, so did the goblin shaman, abandoning his watch post to run off in the dark of night to a particular copse of trees—and a particular stump of a felled tree within.
He glanced around, making sure he wasn’t seen, then reached carefully into a crack in the trunk, releasing a cleverly hidden lever. The flat top of the trunk popped free on one side and the goblin lifted the secret trapdoor back on its hinges and quickly scrambled onto the ladder within, closing and sealing the trunk behind him.
Down he went to a small anteroom, where he stood with his arms extended unthreateningly, well aware that several crossbows and a side-slinger catapult or two were aimed his way. He tapped his beret and was Regis once more.
“Well met, little rat,” said Gunner Grapeshot, the artillery dwarf commander in charge of this secret tunnel and trapdoor the industrious folk of Silverymoon had dug. “What d’ye know?”
“Lots,” Regis replied, hustling by. “Lots for Lord Hornblade and the knight-commanders!”
Gunner Grapeshot clapped him on the shoulder as he sped past.
“Where are the damned dragons?” Tiago roared at Ravel. They were back in Hartusk Keep—the ruins of Sundabar—and the drow warrior was not in a good mood.
“Arauthator said he would return in the Melting,” the Xorlarrin wizard replied. “That time is upon us. Patience, my friend …”
“Patience?” Tiago interrupted with incredulity and animosity. “The Baenre and Barrison Del’Armgo soldiers are gone. You tell me to have patience while the matron mother has none, clearly.”
“Beware your words, Husband,” said Saribel, entering the room.
“We were winning,” Tiago replied in low and even tones.
“We still are,” Ravel replied. “The dwarves are in their holes, Silverymoon is locked, Sundabar and Nesmé have fallen, and Warlord Hartusk’s army only swells with new monsters eager to drink in the blood of our enemies.”
“The dwarves …” Tiago spat. “Do you think we’ll keep them in their holes when they realize that few drow support the orcs in the tunnels?”
“What does it matter?” Saribel asked sharply, drawing Tiago’s narroweyed glance. Most would wilt in the face of that dangerous look, but Saribel stood taller. “Fifteen tendays and the hourglass sand is already falling fast. We will strike again, beautifully and powerfully, and leave the mark of House Do’Urden burned forever upon the memories of those survivors in the Silver Marches. And then we will be gone, back home, to House Do’Urden in Menzoberranzan, to revel in the glory of victory.”
Ravel nodded with her every word, but Tiago seemed less than convinced.
“So hungry for glory,” Saribel berated him with her wicked grin unrelenting, “and too foolish to know that greater glory awaits us in our homeland. We are the instruments of the matron mother, idiot husband. We will carry House Do’Urden forward, step by step, until we and great Baenre surround Matron Mother Del’Armgo on the Ruling Council.”
“Third House?” Tiago asked, his voice full of doubt, for indeed, those Houses between Barrison Del’Armgo and Do’Urden were quite capable and powerful. Tiago ran the list silently in his thoughts, trying to sort out which House might be a likely target for House Do’Urden’s attempted climb. Despite trying to keep his thoughts private, he found himself shaking his head. Every House above Do’Urden was formidable, and none were without powerful allies. For all her bravado, for all she had already done to assert her dominance, Tiago couldn’t see Matron Mother Quenthel taking so great a risk as to go to war beside Do’Urden against any of the other noble Houses.
Perhaps the matron mother would allow the Houses Melarn and Vandree to finally destroy House Fey-Branche, now that the matron mother had extracted Minolin Fey to serve in House Baenre.
Perhaps soon after, Baenre and her allies would turn upon the Melarni and their Vandree allies, eliminating those two Houses, too, from the Ruling Council. By the time the blood dried, the Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh Houses of Menzoberranzan might well be no more, allowing the fast ascent of Matron Mother Quenthel’s pet House of Do’Urden.
“Soon after,” Tiago whispered with a derisive snort. He had experienced enough of Menzoberranzan’s politics to know that such maneuvers would take years, decades even, and all of that with Matron Mother Mez’Barris Armgo wearing her dangerous scowl.
He shook his head. He could see none of it, not anytime soon. Matron Mother Quenthel had already extended herself to the limits of tolerance, between usurping the Eighth House with her Do’Urden creation and granting a ninth seat on the Ruling Council to her sister Sos’Umptu. All of Menzoberranzan, and even the Q’Xorlarrin soldiers serving here in the Silver Marches, whispered at the brash moves by Matron Mother Quenthel. Only the threat of House wars and a web of powerful allies were keeping the city from exploding into an all-out civil war. The threat of war could often be a greater shackle than the war itself.
And even if Saribel’s hopes began to materialize and House Do’Urden began her ascent up the rungs of the Ruling Council, what did that matter to Tiago? He was a Baenre, by blood and birthright, and that House would ever rule supreme in Menzoberranzan, and surely over House Do’Urden, which was no more than a shadow cast by the matron mother for her own advantage.
“But of course you have other plans, do you not, Husband?” Saribel accused with a wicked grin. “It is not about Menzoberranzan for you, is it? Or about the glory of House Baenre or House Do’Urden, or about the structure and security of Q’Xorlarrin.”
“Why would I care for Q’Xorlarrin?” he asked dismissively.
“It is my Hou—”
“Was,” Tiago pointedly interrupted.
Saribel conceded the point with a nod, but that knowing, wicked grin never left her face. “This is all,” she said, lifting her arms to take in the environment around her, “about Tiago to you. It is personal, intensely so. It is about the glory of Tiago, and of those gains you can make here to further your personal power in Menzoberranzan.”
“Are you any different, Matron Mother Do’Urden?” Tiago asked, sarcastically throwing Saribel’s own ambitions to rule House Do’Urden back in her face.
“No,” she admitted. “But I see the gains of this war already achieved. Few drow have fallen, though many enemies are dead, and Warlord Hartusk is entrenched enough to cause havoc and misery to Luruar for decades to come. And all in the name of Do’Urden. We have already won, Husband.”
“Almost,” said Tiago.
“Fifteen tendays,” Ravel said from the side. “One hundred and fifty days to coax the rogue from the dwarven hole and kill him.”
“And so I shall,” Tiago vowed.
The room’s door banged open and in strode Warlord Hartusk with determined, powerful strides.
“Where are the dragons?” the brutish orc demanded.
“A question I just asked,” said Tiago.
“The Melting has begun,” Hartusk growled, using the nickname of the fourth month. “It is time, but we need the dragons.”
“We have thousands of soldiers,” said Ravel. “Tens of thousands! We can press Silverymoon and assail Everlund even without …”
Hartusk’s growl, so full of anger and threat, cut him short. “The dwarves came out,” he said.
“Which dwarves?” Tiago and Ravel asked together, both clearly surprised and intrigued.
“Mithral Hall,” Hartusk explained.
“They burst from their door, then ran back in before my armies could swarm over them. But they stole supplies, many supplies, and so they are safe in their hole once more. I need dragons to keep them in, and to dig, aye to dig into their halls, that orc spears will find dwarven hearts.”
Tiago smiled knowingly and nodded.
“Everlund,” Warlord Hartusk demanded, and Tiago smiled all the wider, pleased that the orc leader was perceptive enough to understand that Tiago doubted their intended course. If the dwarves were breaking out behind them, prodding farther to the south would be foolhardy.
“Arauthator said he would return, and so he shall,” Saribel put in.
Warlord Hartusk stared at her for a few moments, then snapped his glare onto Tiago. With a growl and a great harrumph, the brutish orc strode from the room, slamming the door behind him.
“He doesn’t even know yet,” Tiago remarked, referring to the recall of the Menzoberranyr, with fully three out of every four dark elves—perhaps more—who had come in support of the war leaving for the deeper Underdark.
“This should prove to be fun,” Ravel said dryly.
“He is an orc,” Saribel put in, “easily distracted, easily pleased.”
“You intend to sleep with him?” Tiago asked, drawing a scowl from Saribel.
She turned to her brother instead and asked, “Well?”
Tiago, too, turned to Ravel, but his expression was one of honest curiosity.
“Lorgru didn’t have the time to gather them,” Ravel answered his sister.
“So you have them?”
“They are in the crypt in Dark Arrow Keep.”
“Then go and get them,” Saribel demanded.
Ravel heaved a sigh and looked over at Tiago with great lament. “The sword and armor of the first King Obould,” he explained. “Gifts for Warlord Hartusk.”
“Where did you get such an idea?” Tiago demanded, and Ravel held his hand out to Saribel.
Tiago’s incredulous gaze fell over her.
“While you plot and connive for the lust of the rogue Do’Urden and the sake of your own glory, I am thinking of the wider view, Husband,” she said.
“Hartusk usurped Lorgru,” Tiago reminded. “You are likely to incite a civil war among the orcs!”
But Saribel was merely shaking her head. “Putting that fiery greatsword in the hands of Warlord Hartusk will remind all of the time of Obould,” she said. “And so we begin again the whispers that this was all ordained, a plot by Lolth and Gromph executed by King Obould the First and a drow spy named Drizzt Do’Urden to secure a foothold in the Silver Marches for just this day. It was Tos’un Armgo’s idea. He remembers well the days of the first King Obould.”
Tiago stared at her for some time, impressed and a bit afraid. In the end, he could only mutter once more, “Where are the damned dragons?”
“Regis heard Duke Tiago with his own ears,” Knight-Commander Aleina Brightlance reminded the sitting Lord of Silverymoon. Beside her, Regis shifted nervously from foot to foot, very aware of the withering gaze of the great Taern Hornblade, the battle-mage they called Thunderspell.
“You ask me to weaken my garrison with the hordes of orcs and giants encamped around Silverymoon on the word of a halfling I barely know?” Lord Hornblade replied. “A halfling you hardly know?”
“So once more you doubt my story?” Regis asked. “And the tale of Wulfgar? I thought we had settled this, Lord Hornblade. Have not your priests …”
He paused when Hornblade held up his hands in defeat. “Yes, yes,” he said. “You are Regis of Icewind Dale, once steward of Mithral Hall. Your claim has been verified.”
“But you just said—”
“And friend to Drizzt Do’Urden,” Hornblade went on. “Drizzt Do’Urden of House Do’Urden of Menzoberranzan, who have come to the surface to prod forth the legions of Many-Arrows. To bring misery to my door.”
“You cannot believe that,” Regis quietly mouthed.
“Duke Tiago Do’Urden of Nesmé has executed hundreds,” Lord Hornblade said. “He led the fight that killed King Bromm of Citadel Adbar. He cut off the head of King Firehelm in Sundabar and flew about the city on his pet dragon with the trophy. Aleina saw it herself! Did you not, Knight-Commander?”
“I saw Tiago,” Aleina carefully answered.
“Tiago Do’Urden,” said Hornblade.
“Tiago Baenre,” Regis corrected. “Of House Baenre, First House of Menzoberranzan.”
“He calls himself Do’Urden.”
“I do not know why,” Regis admitted. “But whatever it may be, Drizzt is not a part of it. Wulfgar and I were separated from him and King Bruenor in the upper tunnels of the Underdark, trying to get to Mithral Hall. Drizzt has nothing to do with the aggression of Many-Arrows, Lord Hornblade, unless it is to put an end to that aggression by the blade.”
“Was it a Do’Urden felled by Wulfgar’s throw of Aegis-fang when my troupe made our last run to Silverymoon?” Aleina added. “For that drow was surely killed by the blow.”
Lord Hornblade’s expression and uplifted hands bade them both to relent.
“If you are wrong about this, Silverymoon will be in desperate straits,” Hornblade said.
“We are not asking for a large force,” Aleina said. “And we will need only enough wizards to keep us from the searching eyes of the orcs.”
“And the drow and the dragons,” Hornblade corrected. “You will need powerful magic to deceive the eye of a dragon.”
Aleina bowed her head, conceding the point.
“They are rallying their forces at Sundabar, determined to sweep southeast of Silverymoon and strike at Everlund,” Hornblade said quietly, repeating the report Aleina had delivered. He rubbed his hand deliberately over his cheeks and beard, staring hard at the duo.
“It is a wise move for them,” he decided. “Everlund will be no easy battle, surely, but the city has not the magical firepower Silverymoon can deliver, and it is that magic that keeps the dragons warily high when they pass over our walls.”
“It is a fool’s errand,” Regis argued. Aleina gasped, and Hornblade arched one eyebrow. “They stretch their line past powerful enemies. This is our opportunity. Give us resources, I beg, Lord Hornblade. We will peck at their lines and cripple them before they can begin their march. We will choose the battles and the fields upon which they are fought, and so the orcs will lose and lose again. And should they choose to come against you, it will be with a depleted and dispirited force.”
“Well-argued, I admit,” Hornblade said. He looked to Aleina. “And you are determined to lead this force? I had hoped to promote you to the leadership of the Knights in Silver and the defense of the city, and now you tell me that you will not even remain in Silverymoon?”
The woman could not suppress her obvious intrigue at the intriguing prospect the Lord of Silverymoon had just dangled in front of her. But she shook her head.
“It is a good plan,” she decided. “Our enemies cannot overrun Silverymoon, nor can they get into the dwarven citadels. Their thirst for blood has driven them to err. This beast, Hartusk, needs a conquest, but his lust exposes his flanks. I will be the tip of the sword that stabs relentlessly into those flanks.”
“A cavalry group,” said Lord Hornblade. “Fifty riders, including the three illusionists you’ll need to keep you safely hidden, a pair of skilled battle-mages, and four priests specializing in the healing arts.”
“Fifty warriors plus the nine,” Aleina bargained. “Plus the ten, I say, adding a third battle-mage. And an extra horse, a large one, and as fine a pony as can be found.”
Lord Hornblade stared at her and grinned. “Forty-eight warriors, counting yourself, plus the horse and pony for your new friends, and—”
“The ten,” Aleina said, matching his grin.
“And if I may,” Regis said after a long pause, and both looked to him with surprise. “Credits for me at the apothecary? I am an alchemist of no small skill, and carry all the tools necessary
to ply my trade.” He tapped his magical pouch.
Lord Hornblade could only chuckle. “Perhaps I should surrender and simply ride with you,” he said, and though it started as a joke, by the time he finished the sentence, he and Aleina were looking into each other’s eyes quite seriously.
CHAPTER 13
THE HAUNTED KING
BROTHER AFAFRENFERE WALKED SO LIGHTLY ON THE MUD AND MEAGER snowpack that remained northeast of the Glimmerwood that he left no tracks. Nor did he make a whisper of sound, gliding like a shadow through the trees.
He came upon a pair of orc sentries, simply walked right up to them. When they noticed him, it was already too late.
Afafrenfere’s right elbow went into the throat of one, turning its scream into a gurgle. Up swept his left hand at the same time, lifting the other orc’s spear harmlessly high and wide. The monk turned fast, right palm sweeping out and up, catching the orc in the chin and nose and lifting its face to the sky. Afafrenfere stepped into that blow with his right foot, placing it between the orc’s feet and putting his shoulder beside the orc’s. Out went his right hand again—or still, since it was the same movement—not to hit the orc this time, but to flash past the beast’s head.
Now the monk turned again as he pulled back, right hand catching the orc’s hair and driving it forward to stumble and trip over the monk’s strongly planted foot. It pitched forward, Afafrenfere helping it along, driving its face right into the trunk of a thick oak with a sickening crunch.
The first orc was on the ground by then, on its knees, grabbing at its throat and gasping for air.
Afafrenfere’s circle kick snapped its neck.
The monk moved along, now carrying the orc’s spear, which he had deftly taken as the brute had dived into the tree trunk.
Being human in the dark of night, he might have seemed at a disadvantage surrounded by orcs with their lowlight vision. But it was not so. The monk’s senses were perfectly attuned to his task, every rustle, every movement registering so clearly and distinctly, every smell wafting to him—and he knew when those scents revealed an orc.